


In Hand

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Foxtrot [120]
Category: Dollhouse, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Dollhouse-level non-con, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-17 22:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7288537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the comment_fic prompt: "Stargate Atlantis, John Sheppard + Patrick Sheppard + David Sheppard, John went home for a short visit when they were kicked out of Atlantis."</p><p>Set during Season 3. Patrick Sheppard POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Hand

Patrick looked up from his perusal of Forbes Magazine when Conchita said, “Sir, John is at the door.”  
  
Patrick raised his eyebrows. “John?”  
  
“Mister John,” Conchita confirmed.  
  
His son. No, not his son. Yes, his son, but twisted and warped, not the boy he’d sent off to college. Not that he’d sent John off to Stanford. John had damn well fled rather than face the responsibility and truth of what it meant to be a Sheppard man. At least Patrick had a shadow of him left, the boy who’d looked so much like his mother.  
  
Only he didn’t look like his mother these days, did he? Walking around in the body of some white trash charity case. Rossum was good, though. No one who looked at Foxtrot John Sheppard would think he was anything less than the heir to a multi-billion-dollar corporation. John would inherit far less than Dave in the event John sold, so no one but Dave would be the majority shareholder, but he would still inherit.  
  
Patrick set down the magazine and rose to his feet. “Conchita,” he said, “please call David, summon him for supper. Tell him to cancel any other plans he has.”  
  
“Of course, Mister Patrick. And what about Missus Kathleen and the girls?”  
  
“Tell David just him.” Patrick swept out of the study and down the stairs to where Anita, the junior-most housemaid, was hovering at the door, eyeing the man on the doorstep with obvious reluctance.  
  
The man on the doorstep was a stranger wearing combat fatigues and heavy combat boots, a dusty duffel bag at his feet. But the black band around his right wrist was familiar - John was forever wearing some strange trinket, usually handmade or a token of affection from an admirer. And the expression in the man’s eyes was familiar, too: wariness, a touch of insolence, and the faintest hint of dislike, all with a veneer of deference and respect.  
  
“John,” Patrick said.  
  
“Father.”  
  
“This is unexpected.” While Anita was showing John to his room, Patrick would call The Dollhouse, make sure John got looked at.  
  
“I have three days’ libo before I’m reassigned,” John said. “Figured I’d drop by, see the old stomping grounds. Ride a horse.”  
  
“Reassigned?” Patrick asked. “What did you do this time?” But he stepped back, gestured for John to enter. Joe always had looked like John, but a little too pretty, features too sharp and refined, too delicate. Dave had inherited the strong Sheppard jawline, and John had, too.  
  
The creature in front of him wasn’t John, but he was close enough to get the job done.  
  
“Not me,” John said. “Some disagreement with the locals. It was a political thing, really.” Anita stepped forward to try to take his duffel bag, but he shook his head. “I know where my room is, thanks. Unless you turned it into a sewing room?”  
  
Patrick gritted his teeth against an insult. It wouldn’t do in front of the staff, and the creature in front of him wasn’t a real person anyway, was just doing what the Dollhouse had programmed him to do, and that included John’s less pleasant tendencies toward sarcasm and disrespect. How he’d made Major was a mystery.  
  
“Anita, please show Major Sheppard to his room.”  
  
Anita inclined her head and said, “This way, sir.”  
  
The smirk grin John tossed over his shoulder was all too familiar. “Actually, these day’s it’s Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard.”  
  
“Congratulations,” Patrick said flatly.  
  
“Lay on, Anita.” And John followed Anita up the stairs.  
  
In true John fashion, he didn’t come back down, probably wouldn’t until Anita summoned him for supper, which was just fine by Patrick. He had no interest in making stilted conversation with the android ghost of his dead son, and he’d have a chance to call The Dollhouse anyway.  
  
Adelle DeWitt said there was no way she would be able to get Topher, Foxtrot’s primary programmer, out to them in time, but Bennett Halverson, the DC Dollhouse programmer, could come take a look at him.  
  
Patrick was just finishing exchanging pleasantries with DeWitt when Conchita announced that Dave had arrived.

Dave was shrugging off his jacket in the foyer and handing it off to Anita when Patrick reached him. “Dad, what’s the emergency?”  
  
“John’s on leave and dropped by unexpectedly,” Patrick said.  
  
Dave’s eyes went wide. “What?”  
  
“I did some research, and according to his new CO at Peterson, he was transferred back Stateside from McMurdo two years ago, then away again somewhere overseas, didn’t have leave for a full year, got one week’s liberty for his promotion last year, had annual leave, and then wasn’t scheduled for annual leave for another two months when the base he was posted at got shut down.”  
  
“What do you need me to do?” Dave asked.  
  
“Help me assess him and decide whether this investment is worth sustaining,” Patrick said. He’d shelled out a fortune on the Foxtrot Project, and apart from the world believing that he had one successful son and one who was an estranged and borderline screw-up (but had somehow gotten a promotion), he wasn’t seeing much return on his investment.  
  
Dave nodded.  
  
Patrick said, “At the last annual fundraising dinner, who else expressed an interest in John?” Patrick had been able to read the avarice in his colleagues’ eyes for a long time. His wife was off limits, and Dave was off limits. He’d planned on letting John choose, once he was eighteen, how best he’d serve the family, and he’d chosen to abandon it.  
  
The creature upstairs wasn’t his real son, and Patrick had paid exorbitant amounts to make sure Sheppard Industries retained its power and prestige in the market. If it made other CEOs feel powerful, to think they’d managed to pull one over on Patrick Sheppard, he’d let them have that, because it made them cocky, foolhardy, and he’d come out with the better end of the bargain once all the paperwork was signed and the numbers settled.  
  
Dave hesitated. “It’s been a long time, Dad.”  
  
“Call around,” Patrick said, “and see if you can turn over a few rocks. In the meantime, I’ll deal with him.”  
  
Dave nodded and headed for his own study, closed the door.   
  
Patrick headed upstairs to John’s room. He expected the man would either be asleep or be playing his guitar or otherwise indulging in the adolescent hobbies that had driven Patrick insane, like video games. He really ought to have cleaned all of the childhood garbage out of John’s room.  
  
But when Patrick turned the corner, John’s door was open, and he was sitting cross-legged on the bed. Knitting.  
  
Patrick stared. “You can knit?” Immediately he knew it was the wrong reaction. DeWitt had warned him that a reprogrammed, improved John might manifest skills the real John didn’t have, and Patrick couldn’t act surprised at any skill John thought he’d grown up with, or it might trigger a composite event, let Foxtrot know something about him was awry.  
  
John turned to him. “Yes,” he said. “Rumor has it, it’s helpful for soldiers who have PTSD.”  
  
“You have PTSD?” The Dollhouse could fix that, no question.  
  
“I spend a lot of time around soldiers.”  
  
“David will be joining us for dinner,” Patrick said.  
  
“That’s nice.” The softening of John’s expression looked genuine enough. “When I called his phone at the airport, it went straight to voicemail.”  
  
Patrick frowned to himself. Had Dave simply missed the call, or had he not told Patrick about it? Dave had always seemed so squeamish about the Foxtrot Project. He was bold and ruthless where it counted for the corporation, but apparently he had too much of his mother in him. Too much of her softness.  
  
“Anita will summon you when supper is ready,” Patrick said, and turned go. Paused. “Unless you’d like to join me and David for an aperitif?”  
  
“No, thank you.” The steady, confident rhythm of John’s hands was intriguing.  
  
His refusal was entirely predictable. “All right.” Patrick would have to make a few calls of his own, then, let a few friends know John was in town, that his social calendar might suffer a few disruptions because of it.

Once again, it was Matthew Harding who was interested in dropping by.

When John came down to supper, he was dressed halfway appropriately. His jeans and shirt were clean and pressed, not torn, but not nearly formal enough for the occasion. At least he was out of his uniform. Dave had, predictably, told his father no one had mentioned wanting to drop by and look in on John, offer belated congratulations for his promotion. Patrick thought he saw a second’s hesitation in John when Anita led Harding into the room, but Patrick spoke the trigger words, and then John relaxed, was more pleasant and more pliable, friendly with Harding. Patrick knew he saw disgust flicker in Dave’s eyes for half a second, but then Dave was sitting beside John and helping John draw Harding into conversation, and Patrick knew he had everything well in hand.


End file.
